


the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth

by totalsafety



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, M/M, but later on there might be some with post-get together scenes idk, but the good kind the kind that means hey you're important so i'm calling you out because i care, idk just snapshots of them together drabbles I guess, most of it is unestablished relationship, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4559232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totalsafety/pseuds/totalsafety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which I can only see very specific moments of pynch, but am unable to see the entirety of any time period beyond a single moment aka a collection of drabbles</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. everyone's mad, what's new.

“Jesus, wanna turn that up any louder? I don’t think the kids in Sweden can hear it yet.”

Ronan keeps his eyes closed, ignoring him from the office chair he dreams in. He turns on his other side, legs propped up next to all of the homework Adam has spread out on the large desk. The music from the dream speaker keeps projecting bass so deep it’s resonating in Adam’s internal organs. 

“Really?”

Ronan makes no move to respond. There’s finals next week and work early tomorrow and honestly Adam has no idea what made him agree to come here. There was probably no place more distracting than the Barns. 

Adam slowly leans over, forehead connecting with the cool surface of the desk. He listens to the music for mere seconds before shooting up, taking the speaker in one hand and walking briskly to the large opening towards the front of the barn. His path is meandering as he tries to avoid the clutter of dream objects scattered around the space. Ten feet away from the doors, he trips over a large cat. 

The guttural scream he lets out is monumental. _Tantrum tantrum tantrum that’s right Adam the last thing you need right now is a fuck-all breakdown jesus._ He keeps screaming until he can’t breathe, until he has to take a deep breath, and yells one indecipherable syllable before running the last few feet to the barn doors. He raises the arm holding the dream speaker back, and whips it forward. The speaker flies toward the open fields, a black speck arching it’s way toward destruction. 

Ronan appears from behind, a snarl beginning to form when comprehension settles in. 

“What the royal fuck is going on?”

Ronan’s stepped out of the office and navigates his way towards the front. Adam stares at this creature, fierce and sharp and belonging in a way he never will. As Ronan gets closer, Adam gets angrier, his gaze never leaving the precious Greywaren. Ronan stops a few feet away; he recognizes the situation, Adam being a dam of fuel waiting for any excuse to ignite. 

The air is suffocating. Seconds pass. Ronan watches Adam’s body coil up, tighter tighter tighter, until he snaps, launching forward to throw the most ridiculous punch he’s ever seen. Even without form, it’s determined, charged with indignation and frustration and a pent-up swarm of chaotic pressure. Still, Ronan catches Adam’s fist easily. Using his momentum against him, Ronan twists both of Adam’s arms behind his back, transfers both wrists to one hand, and roughly wrestles Adam to the ground. 

Adam makes no sound of pain, a practice perfected by years of living with Robert Parrish. He’s panting, winded from screaming and yelling and thinking. Ronan pins Adam hard to the floor with a hand on his back and the other still holding both of Adam’s wrists. 

_Fuck you, Parrish,_ he thinks. He leans forward to hiss in Adam’s good ear.

“Don’t **_ever_** throw a punch at me ever again. We’re fighting for you, Adam, and we take care of you just like you take care of the ley line. We’re **_together_** , man. Gansey and Blue and Noah and you and me.” 

Ronan pauses to catch his breath, winded from the ferocity put behind his words. Hot air brushes Adam’s ear, and he feels Ronan’s chest expand with every breath. 

“Don’t fucking turn this into pity or charity or whatever the fuck you think it is because it’s not. You’re more than what you for Cabeswater, and you’re more than your dick of a father, and you’re more than the money you hide in that cereal box.” 

Adam finally allows himself a single wheeze. Ronan is so much heavier than he looks. 

“Wait, what, how did you-“

“Shut up. You need to think about what fucking matters to you. I am not the one you need to be against. None of us are.”

For a while, it’s quiet, they’re breathing being the only sound. Adam takes in Ronan’s words, letting them permeate. Once he feels the last of the temper dissipate, Adam shifts his body in a futile attempt for comfort. Ronan takes it as a concession. 

He gets up first, and takes Adam’s hand to pull him up before he has a choice. Adam coughs a little, hunched over, hands on his knees. After he straightens, Ronan immediately punches him in the stomach. Adam can tell it wasn’t nearly as hard as Ronan can hit, but he still stumbles and narrows his eyes at Ronan in stunned disbelief. 

“Just showing you how to not make a shit uppercut.”

Adam keeps staring, and then he can’t help but laugh. Ronan presents his most feral, careless grin, and for the first time, Adam lets himself think about the words grateful and lucky and free.


	2. Sometimes, anger is justified.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronan finds out about the list.

Adam trudges across the parking lot of Monmouth, muscles aching with exhaustion. On the way, he passes Ronan working on the BMW, half his body under the hood. 

“What’s wrong with it?” 

Ronan turns his head sideways to glance at Adam. HIs voice comes out rough, as if he’s been screaming for hours. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Adam instantly regrets engaging with Ronan, hates talking to him when he’s like this. Undoubtedly, Adam will walk away aggravated while Ronan absorbs the irritation and uses it to his advantage. Fighting with Ronan is like risking double the stakes on a fixed game. Not only does Adam leave with less, but Ronan gets gratification knowing he’s succeeded in ruining somebody else too. It’s unfair how Ronan can manipulate his anger so well when Adam’s the one who savors control. 

“Fine. But don’t ask me to fix it tomorrow when you realize you can’t fix it yourself.”

“Fucking hell, you’re still here?” Ronan snarls. There’s enough venom in his stare to make a hawk drop dead mid-flight. 

Adam mentally stabs himself as he walks into Monmouth. Catalogs this moment so he’ll remember what happens when he fights back, so he’ll remember to actually walk away next time. _Always have to have the last word, don’t you. Well. Get better last words._

Noah opens the door before Adam can even knock. 

“Ronan found out. About the list. He knows.”

Adam freezes, comprehension working its way through his body before he leans his forehead against the doorframe and groans. 

“How long has he been out there?” Adam whispers, directed more at the doorframe than Noah. “Is his car even broken?”

“An hour, maybe two. It’s not broken. There was some screaming. I think it’s just the smell of the engine he likes right now.”

Adam slides past Noah to walk into the loft, going straight for the window over the parking lot. With Noah beside him, they both watch Ronan take one deep breath under the hood. Judging by the set of his shoulders, it seems to add more tension rather than relieving it. 

They watch as Ronan takes another deep breath before pushing himself out from under the hood, slamming it closed, and stalking to the side of the building. They crane their heads until he’s out of view. Noah puts a hand on Adam’s shoulder.

“You should go. I don’t know how long I can stay, especially without Blue here.”

Adam nods solemnly. Noah gives him a small, encouraging smile and takes his hand to lead him out the door. As soon as Adam steps foot outside, it begins to rain lightly. He curses his luck and jogs to the side of the building. 

Jesus, Ronan. He’s standing a few feet away from the brick wall, throwing chunks of cement from a pile of rubble at his side. The blocks smash into the wall before splitting into smaller pieces that rebound back towards the direction they came, that is, back at Ronan. He unflinchingly receives the damage. Even though no more than minutes could’ve passed, his arms are already flecked with cuts, his hands generously scratched from the uneven cement edges. 

The rain adds to injury, amplifying the severity of his cuts, magnifying the tragic redness of his wounds. The scene is so devastating Adam’s unsure how to approach it. He ends up striding over to push Ronan to the left, far enough from the cement pile that he can’t reach for another piece without taking at least two steps. Adam makes sure to stand between Ronan and the pile. 

Ronan actually growls at him, pushing Adam to the side so he can go back to hurling cement. Adam grabs Ronan’s shoulders in an attempt to hold Ronan back, vision blurred by the rain. Ronan snarls, ducks, and grabs Adam’s torso, putting so much force behind it that they both fall to the ground. Adam ends up on top and scrambles to quickly restrain Ronan’s arms so he can safely straddle his ribs. He looks down to see the other’s eyes shut tight, eyelashes darkly prominent from the rain. Water’s dripping from Adam’s hair on to Ronan’s shirt, and he has to flip his bangs out of the way to see clearly.

“We’re going to save him,” Adam yells, hoping Ronan hears him over the rain.

“What if we can’t?” 

It’s vulnerably honest, a tone unfamiliar to Adam, especially coming from Ronan. Without sarcasm or bitterness or poison, Ronan sounds like a normal, panicked, teenage boy. 

Adam grips Ronan’s arms harder, squeezing so he’ll open his eyes. The pain swirls heavily in Ronan’s stare, and Adam almost wishes he’d kept them shut. Nevertheless, Adam shakes his head vigorously, trying to tell him with his expression _we have to we’re going to do it there’s a way and we’re going to find it._

Ronan’s eyes dart back and forth between Adam’s, controlled and purposeful even now. Then, he fixates on a spot over Adam’s shoulder. Adam waits. He watches dread harden into resolve, and when their eyes meet again, they’ve both come to terms that it’s possible. It has to be. They cannot allow, will not allow, this to happen.    


Ronan nods quickly, and Adam swings his leg off so Ronan can get up. They sit next to each other, mirror images of arms resting on bent knees with Ronan looking straight ahead while Adam looks down. Eventually, they stand up and walk back to the front of the building in silence. Inside, Noah is waiting with towels in one hand and the first aid kit in the other and greets them with a smile too bright, even for him, to be true.


	3. gauze and razors and an endless water supply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the taking care of each other one feat. split knuckles and not being able to shave by yourself

Adam glances toward the bathroom/kitchen/laundry on his way out and catches spots of red. Backpedaling, he looks at the reflection of Ronan’s knuckles, bloodied and split. Grimacing through the pain, Ronan closes his hand around a disposable razor, splitting the cuts even more. The razor clinks its way against the faucet and into the sink. 

“You ok?”

“Yeah,” Ronan says, meeting Adam’s eyes in the mirror. “Just dick-lan visits. You know how it goes.”

“No, I mean shaving.” 

“It’d be a lot **_fucking_** easier if **_someone_** hadn’t used my razor to make stupid patterns in his glitter project.” Ronan turns around and cranes his head just past the frame. “You don’t even go to school anymore, Noah! You don’t have any projects, don’t pull that bullshit on me,” he yells. He turns back to the mirror and picks up the razor with his thumb and forefinger to try again. 

Adam leans against the doorframe, head turned in the direction of Noah’s room. On the door, there’s a giant poster of silver and blue glitter, stamped in overlapping, random patterns of three circles resembling an electric razor. He turns back to Ronan, the other’s back still turned and hunched with tension. Adam watches Ronan try to close his fingers around the razor again, struggling to keep it upright, even in a loose grip. 

“It looks like you can’t even bend your fingers without splitting more skin.”

“I can take it,” Ronan mutters, balancing the razor between his thumb and forefinger again, trying to move his face to accommodate the razor instead of the other way around. 

“I can bandage them.” 

Ronan’s eyes snap up to meet Adam’s in the mirror, keeping his back turned. Adam holds his footing for much longer than he could without the mirror, and Ronan eventually sets the razor down with a gentle, albeit clumsy, finality. 

“Ok,” Ronan says. 

“Ok,” Adam repeats, pushing himself off the doorframe with his shoulder. He reaches for the first-aid kit in the cabinet under the sink. “You should sit.” 

“I’m standing.” Ronan crosses his arms and leans back against the counter, wincing when the raw wounds scratch against his shirt. He gingerly uncrosses them, but makes no move to indicate he’s sitting down. 

Adam pushes down the annoyance. He sets the box next to Ronan’s hip on the counter, opening it to find the gauze. Without hesitation, he takes Ronan’s hand from where it hangs limply on the other’s side. As he unrolls the gauze, Adam realizes has no idea how to wrap knuckles; he’s never had to patch himself up with anything other than longer sleeves. Nevertheless, he holds Ronan’s hand palm down, using his thumb to pin the gauze in place on the back of the other’s hand. 

Ronan watches Adam deftly wrap the gauze around, turning his hand over to cross the gauze over his palm and again, but higher, over the back of his hand, wrapping it twice around his knuckles horizontally, and again across his palm. He repeats the cycle again, since there’s still bleeding visible through the gauze, before he stops. Adam cuts the strip and neatly tucks the end into a fold, dropping Ronan’s hand as soon as he’s done. 

Ronan turns his hand over, examining the overlapping edges for loose gaps they both know he won’t be able to find. Experimentally, he clenches his fist. They both watch as red seeps through the gauze; even though it comes through very slowly and not at all a lot, Adam picks up the gauze and wraps another layer around Ronan’s hands. When he tucks in the end the second time, Adam makes sure to hold Ronan’s fingers straight, sternly looking him the eye. 

Ronan wryly mimics the look, although his harshness is muted by the deflating shaving cream dripping onto the floor. He delivers a pointed glance to the razor between them, looking back to Adam as if he’s solved nothing. Unfortunately, it’s common knowledge Ronan is shit with his left hand. At anything. Even without the bruises beginning to form, he probably would have better luck writing an essay with his left hand than shaving without cutting off his entire chin. 

“I can do it,” Adam says, confident and simple and assured. He grabs a towel off the rack, raising it to the cheek covered in shaving cream. He stops before making contact, asking Ronan with his eyes. 

Ronan nods, and Adam wipes the melted cream off. He grabs the bottle and presses down on the top, watching the foam collect on his fingers. Looking up, he uses one hand to smooth the cream over Ronan’s jaw, up his cheek, and towards his chin. He grabs the bottle again and repeats, covering any remnants of Ronan’s five o’clock shadow. 

Adam takes the razor in one hand, holding Ronan’s chin steady with the other. After every stroke, Adam rinses the razor under the tap, turning the water off for a few seconds before turning it back on. 

“Can you just leave it on, for fuck’s sake?” 

Adam pinches Ronan’s cheek between his nails. 

“Can you not talk? Think about what you would look like with an asymmetrical face.” 

Ronan’s jaw shifts, but he doesn’t talk until Adam’s done. While Adam rinses the razor completely, Ronan turns to study himself in the mirror. Adam looks up as he shakes the razor dry, eyes flickering over the other’s jaw. Ronan turns the faucet back on, cupping a hand to bring water over his face to wash off traces of shaving cream. He leaves the water on, even after he’s reached for the towel to dry his face. 

Adam huffs, turning off the water and putting the first-aid kit back under the sink. When he straightens, before he’s even closed the sink cabinet, the faucet is back on. Adam looks at Ronan in the mirror: he’s smirking at his reflection, half-hidden behind the towel he pretends to dry himself with. 

Adam backs out of the bathroom/kitchen/laundry, hands spread out on either side in a pseudo-welcome. _Fine, leave your water on, see if I care, it’s your money._ He folds them in just before he hits the doorframe and turns around to walk straight out of Monmouth.


	4. tension, then release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam gives Ronan a haircut.

Adam glides the razor down again, creating the second stripe of lighter hair among the rest of Ronan’s unshaven head. He shuffles his feet, aware of the tension and perceptive to Ronan’s discomfort. Neither of them really know what they’re doing. He brings the razor back up, pauses mid-air, and ends up setting it down on the sink counter in front of them. They glance at each other before Ronan slumps a fraction further down the chair, an inch speaking for miles. He’s still staring at Adam, but his posture radiates defeat even if his eyes broadcast challenge. 

“You’re really tense,” Adam whispers. 

_Hopeless hopeless hopeless_ , Adam thinks. What good is Cabeswater if it can’t guide him at this, at being here, at disintegrating the strain in it’s revered prince. 

Ronan grunts in assent, bringing his wrist up so he can worry at the leather bands. 

“You don’t have to do this, if you’ve got somewhere to be or whatever. I can handle it.” The storm in Ronan’s eyes hasn’t left Adam’s face, and it’s comfortably unnerving. 

“Think the shitbox can hold its own in this weather?” 

“No. But you’re a mechanic, right? _**You**_ can hold your own.”

Adam tries to find the humor, seeks out the reprieve they’ve created, but is only met with Ronan’s imitation of a tight-lipped smile before he goes back to biting his leather bands.

Adam moves forward in the slightest, closer to Ronan. He lifts his hands to the middle of Ronan’s back, right where his tattoo starts to show. His fingers drift over skin before he starts kneading. Ronan immediately freezes, but doesn’t project any sign of protest. He stops biting his bands and sits up a little straighter. The small movement pushes his shoulders full into Adam’s hands, giving him encouragement to keep going. 

After he works out all the knots, Adam turns gentle. _Maybe maybe maybe_ , he thinks. 

His hands still, but stay on Ronan’s shoulders. He leans forward and closes his eyes, head bowed, and touches his lips on the crown of Ronan’s head. Adam stays there for a while, reveling. He opens his eyes and moves back, catching the stroke of color on Ronan’s cheeks. His eyes are sealed shut, so Adam doesn’t glean anything else. 

Keeping a hand on Ronan’s shoulder, Adam reaches in front to reclaim the razor. He creates the third stripe of lighter hair, and the fourth and fifth and sixth. When the back of Ronan’s neck is flecked with short strands, Adam blows them away, sometimes accompanied by a brush of his lips. The silence is now comfortable. He’s steady with the razor and finishes soon. 

Using his hand to brush off Ronan’s ears and neck and collarbone, he realizes Ronan’s eyes are still closed. Moving in front of the chair, he presses a soft kiss to each eyelid before leaning back on the counter. 

“All done,” he murmurs. 

Ronan stands up and runs his hand over his head, shaking out any strands that could be left. With Adam resting on the counter, Ronan towers over him. Noticing the height difference, Ronan suddenly stops and crowds in closer, boxing Adam in with hands on the counter beside Adam’s hips. Ronan dips forward to give Adam a lingering kiss. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, the words almost lost in the rumble of his voice. 

Adam grips the front of Ronan’s shirt and pulls him in to say _you’re welcome_.


	5. take it off

“Take that off.” 

Adam turns around, expecting to hear Ronan’s explanation. He waits, and waits, until the silence is confusing. He narrows his eyes, shifts his weight, but doesn’t take off the sweatshirt. 

Ronan’s grimace hardens, turning into something sour. Bitter. It’s worse than disgust because, this time, it’s directed at Adam. Ronan’s voice comes out as low and violent as his temper. 

“You heard me,” Ronan says. “Take it off.” 

Adam looks down at the black sweatshirt again, wondering what spurred Ronan’s anger. It was still taut when Adam slipped it on, still to-be-stretched for its first wear. The crest resembles Harvard, except Adam knows the motto is wrong. 

It’s supposed to be _veritas. Truth._ And it’s supposed to be on the pages of the books in the emblem. The phrase embroidered on Ronan’s hoodie is too long to even be mistaken for _veritas._ It curves around the top of the empty crest, the rest of it upside down as it curves around the bottom. 

The last word, still in Latin, drips off the side: long threads of white anchored in black. _Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas._

_Content is he who knows the causes of things._

“ ** _Adam_** ,” Ronan says, a hand shooting up to grab at the edge doorframe. He holds on until his knuckles turn white. 

“What?” Adam snaps, irritated at the amount of venom in Ronan’s voice for a conversation regarding one of his many sweatshirts.

Ronan takes one step closer, shoulders rolling and arms tight. His fists are loose, but his head is dipped low. He doesn’t meet Adam’s eyes, glaring at Adam’s torso instead. Despite the tension, Ronan speaks quietly. 

“Take. It. Off.” 

Adam stares at the top of Ronan’s head, waiting for the other to look up. When he doesn’t, Adam shrugs off the sweatshirt, combing through his hair as if he cared.

Ronan huffs, grabbing the sweatshirt from Adam’s hand. Their shoulders bump as Ronan passes, and Adam swivels to watch what Ronan does with it. 

Adam flushes with embarrassment. He shouldn’t have come in Ronan’s room while he wasn’t home, and he definitely shouldn’t have tried on the other’s hoodie. And his jeans. And two of his t-shirts. 

Ronan flings the sweatshirt into his closet, more interested in the corner of his desk than where it lands. After hitting the wall, it crumples onto the floor, covering the remains of crushed soda cans.

Adam shakes his head, backing out of the room. 

“You could’ve asked nicely. You didn’t have to—”

Ronan slams the door, leaving Adam inexplicably irritated. Seconds haven’t even passed before the bass is pounding from Ronan’s room. 

“Mature,” Adam yells. 

He catches movement in the corner of his eye, and looks to find Noah a few feet away. Noah takes Adam’s hand, leading him to the other side of Monmouth. They stop at the picture wall, a corner of Monmouth plastered with their lives in still frames. 

Noah points to a vibrant photo, unfaded for all its years. It’s the Lynch family, looking exactly like what they were— a family. Matthew is bent over, laughing at Ronan covered in splatters of snow. Declan hides behind a lopsided snowman, and Aurora smiles next to Matthew, the angel looking down on them all. 

And Niall. Niall is so alive. He’s next to Ronan, arm around his son’s shoulders. The position opens his heavy winter coat, revealing the black sweatshirt he wears underneath. A black sweatshirt with long lines of white thread on the side, uneven and thin. 

Adam knows, he knows without doubt. Even without half the mock-emblem showing, the dripping white columns would’ve been enough. 

He leans his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes in shame. Adam compartmentalizes this feeling, closing the petri dish and sliding it into a small shelf among hundreds of others. 

_Remember what it is to think you understand. Remember what it is to know that you don’t._

“I think the BMW is due for an oil change,” Noah offers. 

Adam nods, striding over to Gansey’s desk. He rips a blank sheet off a notepad, writing a short letter before folding the paper into thirds. 

“Will you make sure he reads it?” Adam asks. 

Noah nods quickly, solemn and true. 

As soon as Adam leaves Monmouth for his mechanic shift, Ronan opens his door. 

The music still thunders, but Ronan looks multitudes calmer. He bends down to retrieve Adam’s note. 

The front reads: _animus._

_For your heart mind soul._

Ronan opens it and reads the rest, biting back a grin. He tosses the paper without looking, but this time, it’s a clean arch straight into the trash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to put this in there but I wrote the last words and it didn't fit anywhere. So this is Adam's note: a hand drawn little coupon with spiky edges. It says "good one for one complimentary oil change" and at the bottom in not so fine print it says "condition one: only redeemable if an asshole named adam gives it to you" and then it says "condition two: only redeemable if you're an asshole named ronan"


End file.
